


Opacity

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-12-15
Updated: 2000-12-15
Packaged: 2018-11-21 01:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11346843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Clarity comes with the dawn.





	Opacity

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Opacity by Diana Battis

TITLE: Opacity  
AUTHOR: Diana Battis  
DISTRIBUTION: OK for Gossamer, Xemplary. Anywhere else, just ask. I usually say yes.  
CLASSIFICATION: I chose not to classify for the story's sake.  
KEYWORDS: None  
RATING: NC-17  
SPOILERS: Within  
SUMMARY: Clarity comes with the dawn.  
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never have, never will, damn it.  
FEEDBACK: or   
Author's notes at the end.  
My fanfiction can be found at: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Vault/4090/TheXFilesFic.html

* * *

Opacity  
by Diana Battis

********

The air smells of dust and neglect, overlaid with the faint scent of cologne.

Mulder's cologne.

You stand in the shadows, breathing deeply of the scent. The faint glow of a streetlamp spills light through dusty panes of glass, illuminating the empty room with gut-wrenching clarity. You never imagined seeing it again under these circumstances. Without him...

Swallowing, you let your eyes sweep across the room. Every crack in the plaster, every scar in the hardwood, all seem achingly familiar to you as though they've been indelibly imprinted in your mind. Maybe they have. Nothing about Mulder is easy to forget.

Biting back a grimace of pain you cross to the windows, the worn carpet doing little to muffle the sound of your footsteps. Outside, the sky seems to bleed as dawn touches the horizon and turns the clouds to rust. Time is your enemy, and as morning approaches you find yourself willing back the sunrise.

You are no closer to finding him.

A sigh escapes you and you turn away, your eyes gravitating toward the worn couch. Your mouth tightens as you survey its length. The surface is cracked and worn in places, like a comfortable old shoe. Hidden springs create hills and valleys that, even in the dim light, take on the contours of his body. You could fool yourself into thinking he'd just left the room to grab a fresh beer. Almost.

It looks so unbearably empty now.

Unable to help yourself, you step over and sink into it, the crinkled surface groaning softly as it accepts your weight. The smell you've associated with him is stronger here. So real that you can practically touch it. Your hand traces along the arm, the black leather cool and smooth under your fingers. You try not to notice how they tremble.

Next to you is a pillow, its cover faded and edges frayed. You slide your palm over it; the tapestry-like fabric is rough against your skin. There is a dark spot on its cover, marking the place where his head usually rested. A fresh wave of pain hits you, and your nails bite into the stuffed surface as memories that have been circling from a distance tear into you like birds of prey...

Mulder never sat. He lounged or sprawled or slouched, his body always loose and relaxed in unknowing grace.

That last night was no exception.

You stood in the doorway, your eyes taking in every inch of him. He was stretched out on his back, the darkness of his clothing blending into the shadows of the room. The faint blue glow from the television blessed his features with its cool light, almost hiding the lines that seemed to etch deeper into his face with each passing day.

One arm was curved beneath his head, the other resting across his stomach, his fingers curled over the black cotton. For a moment you thought he was sleeping, the slow rise and fall of his chest barely perceptible in the eerie light. Upon further scrutiny, the faint movement of one slender finger captured your attention. It moved at a measured pace, tapping an uneven rhythm on the tautly stretched tee-shirt as though keeping time to music only he could hear.

As if he heard your thoughts his finger stilled, and his head turned to focus on you. You watched as his eyes registered your presence, his features softening in recognition. He smiled, a slow stretch of lips that told you more than any words could express. He pushed himself upright, patting the now-empty spot beside him in silent invitation. It was impossible to resist.

Sitting next to him was always a surprise. That his quick mind intrigued you was never in doubt. But the attraction, the physical pull you felt whenever in his presence, that was a revelation. The way his jaw curved, the light dusting of hair that covered his arms, the long, elegant feet that were now propped so casually on the pitted surface of the coffee table. Everything about him seemed to tug at your emotions until you became powerless to resist.

Twisting around to face him you stretched out a finger, tracing a deliberate line down the center of his chest as the hammer of his heart increased in tempo. The heat of his skin was barely contained by the fabric covering him, the firm muscles contracting under your touch. When you reached his waist, you tugged at the hem of his shirt, noting how his complacent smile widened as he raised his arms. In one smooth movement his shirt was off and tossed over your shoulder to the floor, leaving you to revel in the sight of the golden, hair-roughened skin you exposed.

His brows raised in amusement. "See something you like?" Less a question than a challenge, the words were delivered in a low, mocking tone that flooded your cheeks with heat.

Within seconds you were holding him, his smug grin kissed into submission. His face, peppered with evening stubble, rasped against your fingertips as they slid along the taut skin of his jaw. The sandpapery feel of it was a delicious contrast to the smooth heat of the tongue gliding against yours with increasing urgency.

When he finally pulled away, his chest was pumping like a bellows. A few small beads of sweat decorated his flushed face, leaving wet salty trails as they trickled down to his chin. You smiled then, leaning forward to catch one drop with your tongue, then another, gratified to hear the low moan hissed through clenched teeth as you lapped at his skin.

You felt his hands moving across your back, his fingers hot through the fabric of your shirt. They slid beneath the waist of your jeans, pulling until the cotton was free, baring your back to his touch.

"All's fair," he stated in a husky whisper, and you understood what he wanted. It thrilled you to see the spark of danger glittering in his eyes as you leaned away to comply.

You slipped back into his arms, savoring the feel of his skin against yours. So incredible, you remember thinking as you rubbed against him, the smattering of hair on his chest a pleasant abrasion. Your head dropped forward, resting against his shoulder as you focused on the curve of his neck. Tasting the firm, musky flesh under your lips with your tongue, you marveled at his maleness, and at the fate which brought you there.

His head fell back against the couch as you continued your journey, sampling his flesh along the way. Your lips trailed to his chest, licking around one button-like nipple. It peaked under your tongue, pointed and hard, and he shuddered as you scraped your teeth over the tender flesh.

"Enough." You raised your head at the gravel of his voice.

Hands at your shoulders, he pushed you, and you fell backward onto the couch. He stood then, allowing you to swing your legs up. Leaning over you, he unfastened your jeans, his eyes boring into yours as he slid the zipper down. Passivity was never your forte, yet you allowed him this measure of control, letting him strip away the rest of your clothes until you laid bare against the black leather.

He gazed at you and licked his lips, his expression almost feral. Your heart raced as he repositioned himself over you to straddle your hips. Leaning down, he sucked on your lower lip, then nipped it lightly, soothing the sting with the balm of his tongue. And then he kissed you, a clash of lips and tongues and teeth that was as violent as it was heady. You were moaning continuously, and his mouth swallowed the sounds with something akin to greed.

His lips were everywhere, nibbling along your jaw, pulling at your ear. At your neck he paused, his breath harsh against your skin. You raised your hands to stroke through his hair, the damp strands clinging to your fingers, sticky like cobwebs. "Here," you directed, feeling the burn of his stubble against your skin as you urged him lower.

Mulder was not to be rushed. For one moment he rested his cheek against your heart, the flutter of his eyelashes tickling your skin. Then you felt it, one tiny swipe of his tongue, then another, until teasing little laps painted your flesh with goosebumps. He circled a nipple, tasting the surrounding skin with feathery brushes of his tongue, then opening his mouth and sucking hard at the nub. Back and forth, from one to the other, until you thought you'd lose your mind.

You were still cradling his head; the hair prickled against your palms as he slipped lower, planting kisses along your sternum and over your stomach. He paused to dip his tongue into your navel, his hands anchoring your hips to the couch as you thrust forward reflexively. "Easy," he warned, nuzzling your flesh, his tone soft and gentle. Light, soothing caresses drifted across your stomach, moving lower and lower until your breath caught in your throat as his fingers stroked where you wanted him most. Before Mulder, you'd never realized how sensitive your skin was, and your eyes slammed shut as the sensations flowed over you.

You groaned in unison with the springs when his hands left your flesh. Grinning, he shifted up on his knees. "Is that what you wanted?"

His voice came to you over the blood pounding in your ears, and your husky affirmation brought a chuff of laughter from him.

"Look at me," he urged, his tone suddenly serious. Your eyes opened with difficulty, focusing on him. The flickering light cast ominous shadows over his face; he seemed almost like a stranger. His gaze never leaving yours, he reached down to touch you again, spreading your wetness carefully. And then he raised his fingers, flicking the pink tip of his tongue against the already-damp skin. You shuddered, as though the tongue had touched you, and his eyes widened knowingly. "Want a taste?" he asked, touching your lips with those same fingers.

Your mouth opened on a gasp, and one fingertip slipped in. Closing your lips around it, you sucked with enthusiasm. Another finger joined the first, and you lapped at the skin, swirling your tongue along the underside, cleaning away every trace. Scraping your teeth over his knuckles elicited a deep, almost agonized groan from him. You had to bite back a cry of disappointment when he pulled the fingers, glistening with your saliva, from your mouth.

"You'll like this even better," he promised, tracing one of those wet fingers around your opening. Your body arched up, hands scrabbling for purchase along the slippery leather as he entered you with one finger, a sweet incursion that stole the breath from your lungs. Slowly, evenly, he invaded your body, his touch sure and gentle. Two fingers, then three, and soon he was filling you with thrusting motions that mimicked what your body craved. Over and over, his fingers twisting with each incredible stroke, bringing you closer to the edge.

You grabbed his wrist, stilling his motions. Much more of this and you'd be gone. You didn't want that to happen...not until his cock was in you. "Please," you finally managed to gasp, your voice little more than a whisper. "Fuck me." The words sounded strange to you, as though they'd come from someone else. You'd never talked to any man like that before. But he wasn't just any man, and your body was aching to be filled by him.

You felt the cushions shift, and your head tilted to watch as he stood. He moved with an almost feline grace, stripping off his jeans and boxers with an economy of motion. The muted light from the television highlighted his body; broad shoulders and long limbs, perfectly muscled. A well-defined chest tapered to slim hips, the light covering of hair deepening as it reached the juncture of his legs where his cock, thick and erect, sprang from the dark wiry curls. God, he was beautiful, you thought, as your glance moved to his face.

He stared at you for a moment, his chameleon-like eyes dark and almost brooding. And before you realized what was happening he was over you, a cushion hastily shoved beneath you. Your legs were bent upwards and he pushed into you, his cock enormous within the slick, tight channel of your body, invading you in one sure thrust that screamed both pain and pleasure. Relentless, unforgiving...the same way he filled your soul. Muscles tightening, you clenched around him, holding onto this moment with something akin to desperation. But he was too good, too sure, too perfect. Your body betrayed you -- it didn't take more than a few strokes to make you come...

Your eyes snap open, your breath rasping in your throat. The room is flooded with sunlight now. Leaning forward, you release your punishing grip on the pillow, placing it back onto the couch. You swipe almost violently at your cheek, pretending it's sweat and not tears that make it wet. No matter, there's no one to see you cry.

A slight sound reaches your ears, and you stiffen, the adrenaline fueling fear now. You stand, reaching for your gun as you tread carefully toward the bedroom door. The weapon feels cold against your damp palm as you pause for a minute, listening. You hear only silence. Breathing again, you turn the knob, opening the door to his bedroom with care.

There's a body on the bed.

All the places you've looked, yet you hadn't thought to come here again. You hold your breath, moving carefully across the threshold. The pounding of your heart increases with each step you take. The sunlight hasn't reached the bed, and as your eyes become accustomed to the dimness you note the brick-colored spill across the pillow. Like dried blood, is your first thought, and your gut twists painfully until the picture becomes clearer and you realize your mistake. Not blood...hair.

Her hair.

You ease the gun back into its holster and silently approach the bed. She lies on her side, a shirt clutched in her hands. Mulder's shirt. So many pieces fall into place in that second, and you swallow the bile that sours the back of your throat. You escape from the room and close the door, the snick of the latch like a gunshot in the eerie stillness of the apartment.

Crossing to the windows, you stare out at the street. Ten years since your Lieutenant sent you down to DC to help search for a congresswoman's missing nine-year-old daughter. Ten years since it first occurred to you that the Bureau might have more to offer than the NYPD. Ten years since you've been in this apartment...looked into his eyes...touched him...kissed him.

Turning your head you note the fish in the aquarium, gliding through the water. Who takes care of them now? A quick search of the shelves over the tank turns up a small can of food. You flip open the lid to shake in a few flakes, watching the fish swim up from the bottom to feed.

In your time with the bureau you have wondered if your paths would ever cross. You've wondered how it would feel to hear him say 'John' again. But in all your musings, being assigned by the Deputy Director to search for your former lover was never a scenario.

Setting your jaw, you walk to the desk and drop the can of fish food into a drawer. Petty, but what the hell; you've got nothing left to lose. Lips tight, you turn on your heel. Time to wake up Sleeping Beauty and get the show on the road.

********

End

Feedback welcome: or 

Author's notes: My heartfelt thanks to the following people: Jintian and Syntax, for the pointy sticks and yodeling slugs. Alicia K, for beta bravery above and beyond the call of duty. Lara Means and bugs, for agreeing to be the beta equivalent of guinea pigs. Audrey Roget and mountainphile, for support, encouragement and wicked ideas. Alanna, for knowing what it was all about and reading it anyway. And to Musea, for always being there.


End file.
